Crown Duel

  The fire was leaping, the room warm. I glanced at the window. It was still light outside. My chain mail was gone, as was the tunic. All I had on were the shirt and trousers I’d been wearing, wrinkled but dry. The wallet with Debegri’s letter was still tucked safely in my waistband.

  I searched around for the tunic so I could leave the room; not for worlds would I go out dressed thus into the midst of a lot of staring Renselaeus warriors.

  Unless Galdran has won! The terrible thought froze me until I registered the fire. If Galdran had beaten us, I’d hardly be in such comfortable surroundings again. More likely I’d have woken in some dungeon somewhere, with clanking chains attached to every limb.

  I held my head in my hands, trying to get the strength to stand; then my door opened, thrust by an impatient hand. Branaric stood there, grinning in surprise.

  “You’re awake! Healer said you’d likely sleep out the day.”

  I nodded slowly, eyeing his flushed cheeks and over-bright eyes. His right arm rested in a sling. “You are also sick,” I observed.

  “Merrily so,” he agreed, “but I cannot for the life of me keep still. Burn it! Truth to tell, I never thought I’d live to see this day.”

  “What day?” I asked, and then, narrowly, “We’re not prisoners, are we? Where is Galdran?”

  “Dead,” Bran said with a laugh.

  I gaped. “Dead?”

  “Dead and gone, though no one shed a tear at his funeral rite. And you should have seen his minions scatter beforehand! The rest couldn’t surrender fast enough!” He laughed again, then, “Ulp! Forgot. Want steep?”

  “Oh yes,” I said with enthusiasm. “I was looking for my tunic. Or rather, the one I was wearing.”

  “Mud,” he said succinctly. “Galdran smacked you off your horse and you landed flat in a mud puddle. Hold there!”

  I sat down on the bunk again, questions swarming through my mind like angry bees.

  Branaric was back in a moment, carefully carrying a brimming mug in his one good hand, and some folded cloth and a plain brown citizen’s hat tucked under his arm. “Here ye are, sister,” he said cheerily. “Let’s celebrate.”

  I took the mug, and as he toasted me with a pretend one, I lifted mine to him and drank deeply. The listerblossom infusion flooded me from head to heels with soothing warmth. I sighed with relief, then said, “Now, tell me everything.”

  He chuckled and leaned against the door. “That’s a comprehensive command! Where to begin?”

  “With Galdran. How did he die?”

  “Vidanric. Sword,” Bran said, waving his index finger in a parry-and-thrust. “Just after Galdran tried to brain you from the back. Neatest work I’ve ever seen. He promised to introduce me to his old sword master when we get to Athanarel.”

  “‘We’? You and the marquis?”

  “We can discuss it when we meet for supper, soon’s he gets back. Life! I don’t think he’s sat down since we returned yestereve. I’m tied here by the heels, healer’s orders, but there’ll be enough for us all to do soon.”

  I was about to say that I did not want to go to Athanarel, but I could almost hear his rallying tone—and the fact, bitterly faced but true, that as his ignorant little sister, Bran seldom took me seriously. So I shook my head instead. “Tell me more.”

  “Well, that’s the main of it, in truth. They were all pretty disgusted—both sides, I think—when Galdran went after you. He didn’t even have the courage to face me, and I was weavin’ on my horse like a one-legged rooster. One o’ his bully boys knocked me clean out of the saddle right after Galdran hit you. Anyway, Vidanric went after the king, quick and cool as ice, and the others went after Debegri—but he nearly got away. I say ‘nearly’ because it was one of his own people got him squarely in the back with an arrow—what’s more, that one didn’t sprout. Now, if that ain’t justice, I don’t know what is!” He touched his shoulder.

  “What? Arrow? Sprout? Was that somehow related to that strange humming just as everything started—or did I imagine that?”

  “Not unless we all did.” Bran looked sober. “Magic. The Hill Folk were right there, watching and spell casting! First time I ever heard of them interfering in one of our human brangles, but they did. Those arrows from Galdran’s archers all sprouted leaves soon’s they left the bow, and they fell to the ground, and curse me if they didn’t start takin’ root. Soon’s the archers saw that, they threw away their bows and panicked. Weirdest thing I ever saw. That hilltop will be all forest by winter, or I’m a lapdog.”

  “Whoosh,” I said, sitting down.

  He then remembered the cloth under his arm and tossed it into my lap.

  I held up yet another tunic that was shapeless and outsized, but I was glad to see it was plain, thick, and well made.

  “Found that in someone’s kit. Knew you hated wearing these.” Bran indicated his own tunic, another of the blue Renselaeus ones.

  Thinking of appearing yet again as a ridiculous figure in ill-fitting, borrowed clothing, I tried to summon a smile. “Thanks.”

  He touched his shoulder with tentative fingers, then winced. “I’ll lie down until Vidanric returns. Then, mind, we’re all to plan together, and soon’s we’re done here, we ride for Athanarel—all three of us.”

  “Why all three of us?”

  “There’s work that needs doing,” Branaric said, serious again.

  “What can I possibly do besides serve as a figure of fun for the Court to laugh at again? I don’t know anything—besides how to lose a war, and I don’t think anyone is requiring that particular bit of knowledge.” I tried to sound reasonable, but even I could hear the bitterness in my own voice.

  My brother sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll do, either, except I’ll put my hand to anything I’m asked. That’s what our planning session is to be about, soon’s they return. So save your questions for then, and I don’t want any more of this talk of prisoners and grudges and suchlike. Vidanric saved your life—he’s been a true ally, can’t you see it now?”

  “He saved it twice,” I corrected without thinking.

  “He what?” My brother straightened up.

  “In Chovilun dungeon. Didn’t I tell you?” Then I remembered I hadn’t gotten that far before Debegri’s trap had closed about us.

  Bran pursed his lips, staring at me with an uncharacteristic expression. “Interesting. I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, you got in the way of an arrow before I got a chance to finish the story,” I explained.

  “Except that Vidanric didn’t tell me, either.” Branaric opened his mouth, hesitated, then shook his head. “Well, it seems we all have some talking to do. I’m going to lie down first. You drink your steep.” He went out, and I heard the door to his room shut and his cot creak.

  I scowled at the merry fire, thinking over the headlong pace of the recent days. I came to the unsettling conviction that Shevraeth had recognized me outside that town, and I knew why he hadn’t done anything about it: because Debegri was with him then. The marquis and his people had searched day and night in order to find me before Debegri did—searched not to kill me, but in order to save me from certain death at Debegri’s hands.

  Why hadn’t he told me? Because I’d called him a liar and untrustworthy, and had made it plain I wasn’t going to change my opinion, no matter what. Then why hadn’t he told my brother, who did trust him?

  That I couldn’t answer. And in a sense it didn’t matter. What did matter was that I had been wrong about Shevraeth. I had been so wrong I had nearly gotten a lot of people killed for no reason.

  Just thinking it made me grit my teeth, and in a way it felt almost as bad as cleaning the fester from my wounded ankle. Which was right, because I had to clean from my mind the fester caused by anger and hatred. I remembered that horrible day in Galdran’s dungeon when Shevraeth had come to me himself and offered me a choice between death and surrender. “It might buy you time,” he’d said.

  At that moment I’d seen
surrender as dishonor, and it had taken courage to refuse. He’d seen that and had acknowledged it in many different ways, including his words two days before about my being a heroine. Generous words, meant to brace me up. What I saw now was the grim courage it had taken to act his part in Galdran’s Court, all the time planning to change things with the least amount of damage to innocent people. And when Branaric and I had come crashing into his plans, he’d included us as much as he could in his net of safety. My subsequent brushes with death were, I saw miserably now, my own fault.

  I had to respect what he’d done. He’d come to respect us for our ideals, that much was clear. What he might think of me personally…

  I felt an overwhelming desire to be home. I wanted to clean out our castle, and replant Mama’s garden, and walk in the sunny glades, and think, and read, and learn. I no longer wanted to face the world in ignorance, wearing castoff clothing and old horse blankets.

  But first there was something I had to do.

  I slipped out the door, then paused, listening. From Branaric’s room came the sound of slow, deep breathing. I stepped inside the room Shevraeth had been using, saw a half-folded map on the table, a neat pile of papers, a pen and inkwell, and a folded pair of gloves.

  I pulled the wallet from my waistband, opened it, and extracted Debegri’s letter. I laid it on the table beside the papers. Then I knelt down and picked up the pen. Finding a blank sheet of paper, I wrote in slow, careful letters: You’ll probably need this to convince Galdran’s old allies.

  Then I retreated to my room, pulled the borrowed tunic over my head, bound up my ratty braid, settled the overlarge hat onto my head, and slipped out the door.

  At the end of the little hall was another door, which opened onto a clearing. Under a dilapidated roof waited a string of fine horses, and a few Renselaeus stable hands sat about.

  When they saw me, they sprang to their feet.

  “My lady?” One bowed.

  “I should like a ride,” I said, my heart thumping.

  But they didn’t argue, or refuse, or send someone to warn someone else. Working together, in a trice they had a fine, fresh mare saddled and ready.

  And in another trice I was on her back and riding out, on my way home.

  oOo

  “Heee-oh!” The call echoed up from the courtyard. “Messenger!”

  I straightened up slowly, wincing as my back protested. Skirting my neat piles, I went to the open window and glanced down into the sunlit courtyard far below, where Oria’s younger brother, Calaub, capered excitedly about.

  “Just stable the horse and send the messenger in for food, and the message can be left on the table,” I called. And, over my shoulder to Oria, “I hope it’s my book, but that would be miraculous, for I only sent the letter off—what, three? five? A few days ago.”

  “It’s someone new!” Calaub’s high voice was a bat squeak of excitement.

  I laughed. The children his age had concocted an elaborate spy system to identify anyone coming up the main road to the castle—for no one quite believed, any more than I did, that we were truly safe, despite nearly two months of utter quiet. A quiet that had reigned since the day I rode into Erkan-Astiar on the borrowed mare with my head bandaged and, on my lips, the news that Galdran was truly gone.

  Oria surveyed the room, which had been Papa’s refuge at the end of his life. It had not been touched since his death, and weather and mildew had added to the mess. Not long after my return we had commenced cleaning the castle from the basement up. Papa’s room being at the very top of the tallest tower, I had left it for the last.

  “‘Tis done,” Oria said in satisfaction. She wiped her brow and added, “And not too soon, for the hot weather is nearly on us.”

  “Which is not the time for fires,” I said, looking at the piles of things on the new-swept floor. There was some furniture that could be mended, and a very small pile of keepsakes. These last I gathered myself as we went down the steps.

  “The twins can bring everything down this afternoon,” Oria said. “Mama is eager to get someone up there to scrub. You know she won’t declare it’s done until every stone is clean.”

  I set my pile carefully on a small table at the main landing, which was closest to the library. “And then the window work,” I said, and bit my lip. We’d have to have shutters to all the windows that had stood open for years, or the place would be full of drafts and dirt by winter. I knew I ought to have glass put in, but I also—desperately—wanted books. So to ease my conscience, I’d decided, as we got the wherewithal, to alternate windows and books, leaving my room for last.

  We exited the tower and crossed the courtyard as a quicker route.

  No one used the main hall—we all went in and out the side yard, which opened onto the warm kitchens. The spring rains had been tapering off, and though it was full summer in the lowlands, at our heights only of late had we begun feeling a breeze from over the mountains, carrying a warm herbal tang from the south. But the nights were still very chill, and often wet.

  Oria and I walked into the kitchen to find Julen staring at a handsome young man with curly black hair and fine new livery in Astiar green and white.

  His chin was up, and he swept a cool glance over us all as he said, “My errand is with my lady, the Countess of Tlanth.”

  “I am she.” I stepped forward.

  He gave me one incredulous look, then hastily smoothed his face as he bowed low. In the background, Julen clucked rather audibly. Next to me Oria had her arms crossed, her face stony. The young man looked about with the air of one who knows himself in unfriendly territory, and I reflected that for all his airs my brother had hired him or be wouldn’t be here, and he deserved a chance to present himself fair.

  “Surely you’ll have been warned that we are very informal here,” I said, and gave him a big smile.

  And for some reason he flushed right up to his fine hairline. Bowing again, he said courteously, “My lady, I was to give this directly to you.”

  I held out one hand, noticed the dirt smudges, and hastily wiped it on my clothes before putting it out again. When I glanced up at the equerry, I saw in his eyes a hint of amusement at the absurdity of the situation, though his face was strictly schooled when he handed me the letter.

  “Welcome among us. What is your name?” I said.

  “Jerrol, as it pleases you, my lady.” And again the bow.

  “Well, it’s your name if it pleases me or not,” I said, sitting on the edge of the great slate prep table.

  Julen clucked again, but softly. I discovered the preparations for tarts lying at the ready, and hastily jumped down again.

  “Tell me, Jerrol,” I said, “if a great Court lady mislikes the name of a new equerry, will she rename him or her?”

  “Like…Frogface or Stenchbelly?” Calaub asked from the open window, and beyond him three or four urchins snickered.

  Jerrol glanced about him, his face quite blank, but only for a moment. He swept me a truly magnificent bow—so flourishing that no one could miss the irony—and he said, “An my lady pleases to address me as Stenchbelly, I shall count myself honored.” He pronounced it all with awful elegance.

  And everyone laughed! I said, “I think you’ll do, Jerrol, for all your clothes are better than any of us have seen for years. But you will have heard something of our affairs, I daresay, and I wonder how my brother managed to hire you, and fit you out this splendidly, in our colors?”

  “Wager on it yon letter will explain,” Julen said grimly, turning to plunge her hands into her flour.

  “Oh!” I had forgotten Jerrol’s original purpose for arriving.

  I studied my name scrawled above the seal in Branaric’s careless hand, on stiff, cream-colored rice paper—the good kind that came in the books that we had never been able to afford. I was excited and apprehensive. Remembering my rather precipitous departure from that wood gatherer’s house, I decided that much as I valued my friends, I wanted to read Bran’s lette
r alone.

  No one followed me as I walked out. Behind, I heard Oria saying, in a voice very different from what I was used to hearing from her, “Come, Master Jerrol, there’s some good ale here, and I’ll make you some bread and cheese…”

  As I walked up to my room, I reflected on the fact that I did want to read it alone, and not have whatever it said read from my face. Then there was the fact that they all let me go off alone without a word said, though I knew they wanted to know what was in it.

  It’s that invisible barrier again, I thought, feeling peculiar. We can work all day at the same tasks, bathe together at the village bathhouse, and sit down together at meals, but then something comes up and abruptly I’m the Astiar and they are the vassals…just as at the village dances all the best posies and the finest plates are brought to me, but the young men all talk and laugh with the other girls.

  Was this, then, to be my life? To always feel suspended midway between the aristocrat and the vassal traditions, and to belong truly to neither?

  I sat down in my quiet room and worked my finger under the seal.

  Dear Mel:

  I trust this finds you recovered. Why did you have to run off like that? But I figured you were safe arrived at home, and well, or Khesot would’ve sent to me here—since you wouldn’t write.

  And how was I to pay for sending a letter to Remalna-city? I thought indignantly, then sighed. Of course, I had managed to find enough coin to write to Ara’s family, and to obtain through the father the name of a good bookseller. But the first was an obligation, I told myself. And as for the latter, it was merely the start of the education that Branaric had blabbed to the world that I lacked.

  I’m here at Athanarel, finding it to my taste. It helps that Galdran’s personal fortune has been turned over to us, as repayment for what happened to our family—you’ll find the Letter of Intent in with this letter, to be kept somewhere safe. Henceforth, you send your creditors for drafts on Arclor House…

  The words slowly sank in. “Personal fortune”? How much was that? Whatever it was, it had to be a vast improvement over our present circumstances. I grinned, thinking how I had agonized over which book to choose from the bookseller’s list. Now I could order them all. I could even hire my own scribe…